


Some Dance to Forget

by astudyinrose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Rimming, porn with mostly no plot, road trip au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:58:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are on the run from an American drug cartel, and they stop in a motel in the Arizona desert for the night. In order to hide, they pretend that they are a couple on their honeymoon, and they become more invested in the cover story than they had originally planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Dance to Forget

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eliane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/gifts).



> Dedicated to the lovely Clem. Happy Birthday!
> 
> Thanks, as usual, to the wonderful Erin for being a great beta and official smut consultant.

The white mid-afternoon sunlight rippled in endless heat waves over the long road ahead. There was nothing for hundreds of miles in any direction except for the distorted shapes of the saguaro cacti, their arms outstretched in a vague salutatory gestures. The very air seemed to vibrate with the heat, as if it were a living entity.

John had rolled up his sleeves and was currently resting his head against the window with his eyes closed. Sherlock would have thought him asleep, except that he was humming along with the only radio station they were able to pick up-- which played a selection of the worst American popular music from more than thirty years ago.

“ _Oh what a night!_ _Why’d it take so long to see the light? Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right…_ ” the singer crooned.

Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. He had discarded his shoes, and his toes were curled up against the floor of the car endearingly. His hair seemed to catch the sunlight, highlighting the streaks of silver just starting to appear. There must be something about the radiant light out here that made certain colors stand out more. 

The song ended, and the plucking strings of a guitar crackled over the speakers as the next song began. 

_“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair. Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air…”_

“Fitting,” John said jovially.

Sherlock glanced sidelong at him. “What is?” 

He opened his eyes and gestured towards the radio. “The song. Hotel California.” 

“We aren’t in California, John. This is Arizona.” 

John looked at him skeptically. “Arid-zone-uh? I think you’re making that up. Though it is an apt description, come to think of it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Is it always this _hot_?” John rolled down the window slightly, sticking his head out in the breeze. “Couldn’t these drug lords have had their headquarters in, I don’t know, Iceland?”

“They transport the drugs though here from Mexico. Arizona has long stretches of land that are very hard to police, so it’s an excellent entry point,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Silently, though, he agreed. He had thrown his belstaff in the back of the car, and had also rolled up his shirt sleeves, but the air here was oppressive. It was almost as if they had stepped into an oven.

John suddenly sat up, his eyes on the side mirror. “Sherlock,” he said in a level tone. 

Sherlock glanced in the rear view mirror, squinting slightly.

Far behind them, so far away that it looked like a toy, was the shape of a large black car. Sherlock recognized the make and model from the surveillance photos of the drug cartel kingpins.

“It could be nothing,” John said slowly, though he opened the glove compartment and took out his SIG, checking the magazine. “Just a family on a road trip.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock said, flooring the gas. 

“Sherlock,” John said, sitting back in the seat.  

“They are not supposed to know that we are here. Reach in my trouser pocket and take out my phone.” 

John rolled his eyes, but he obeyed.  “Okay,” he said, turning on the phone. “I assume I’m calling Mycroft?” 

Sherlock nodded curtly, glancing in the rear view mirror again.

“No service,” John said, and Sherlock cursed under his breath. 

“What do we do? We can’t exactly pull over and hide… there’s nothing to hide behind.”

“We hope that there’s a town up ahead,” Sherlock said, gunning the engine again. 

The shadows lengthened and dusk settled, and they still had not come across any form of civilization. The car remained at a great distance, but Sherlock could tell that it was slowly creeping up on them. 

As night was beginning to fall, Sherlock was able to make out a faded sign in the distance on which someone had painted a large “3” and an amorphous shape that could have once been a sombrero. After a few more minutes, they finally arrived at the gas station beneath it, which was attached to a seedy-looking motel. It was a single long row of buildings, once painted bright red with white trim that was cracked and peeling, and each room looked out onto the desert beyond. There appeared to be few other patrons, but there were enough that their car should not attract notice. 

Sherlock pulled over, turning the car around to park behind the small motel. “This will have to do,” he said dubiously. 

“Wow,” John said, over-enunciating the consonants as he pulled on his shoes. “This is just like _Psycho._ Hopefully we won’t get murdered in the shower.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

John made a noise of exasperation. “Oh, come on. You’ve never watched Hitchcock?” 

“Mid-twentieth century thriller films are not of interest to me.”

“You didn’t say that when we watched three Bond films in a row,” John teased. 

Sherlock shrugged. He would never admit it, but that had been one of his favorite nights at 221B. He had complained endlessly about every inaccuracy in the movies, and they had drunk far too much while eating chinese takeout. The night had ended with John falling asleep with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Those were _late_ twentieth century,” Sherlock said aloud, getting out of the car and grabbing his coat, more out of habit than expecting to need it. Glancing around briefly, John tucked the gun into the back of his trousers. 

“Was the car cover in the boot?” Sherlock asked, walking around the back.  

“Don’t you mean the ‘trunk’?” John said, grinning.

“You are incorrigible today,” Sherlock said, hurriedly taking the heavy burlap cover out of the boot and covering the car. They walked swiftly into the gas station-slash-reception area, where a young blonde woman was reading a magazine and chewing an enormous wad of bubblegum. She was wearing a name tag which pronounced her name to be “Shelby.”

“I’ll get us a room, shall I?” John said, and Sherlock nodded, walking swiftly over to the window. The black car was quite a bit closer, now, but was still several miles off.

“Oooh, are you from England?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and leaned over the counter, unnecessarily emphasizing the fact that her low-cut blouse left little to the imagination.  

“Yes, we are,” John said, cracking a smile. “One room, please. Just for the night.”

The girl glanced at Sherlock, who was still staying out of sight but watching the car.

“Oh,” Shelby said, straightening up. “Um. A king, then?”

John’s smile tightened slightly. “Er-- that is, we’re not…”

Thinking fast, Sherlock walked over and swiftly grasped John around the waist. “Yes, please,” he said, beaming at the girl. “We’re on our honeymoon. Charles has always wanted to travel the United States, and I thought I would indulge him.” 

“Oh, well that’s… lovely!” Shelby gushed, though she looked rather disappointed as she glanced at John again. She took out a key from the cabinet and laid it on the counter for them.

“Yes, but… there’s one more thing,” Sherlock said, leaning towards her conspiratorially. 

“Oh?” She looked somewhat skeptical.  

“We got in a bit of a tussle a few towns back, at a bar. We were watching a World Cup game and Charles here got in a fight with some men who support another team. He does love his football,” he rolled his eyes. 

“Hey,” John said, scowling.

“They might still be looking for us,” Sherlock went on, ignoring him. “So if anyone asks whether you’ve seen two British blokes--”

“Mum’s the word, gotcha,” Shelby said, smiling again. “Room four. Hope you have a great honeymoon.”

Sherlock beamed at her again, giving John a slight squeeze before he grabbed the key and swept from the room. 

“Was that necessary?” John hissed as they strode quickly toward their room.  

Sherlock unlocked the door. “It was just a cover,” he muttered, flexing the hand that was still warm from resting on John’s hip. 

“But--”

“Shhh,” Sherlock pushed John inside and ducked in behind him. He glanced quickly around the room, which was apparently furnished in the seventies and looked like it hadn’t had a deep cleaning in ages. John sat on the large bed, checking his gun once more, and Sherlock drew the curtains most of the way closed. He stood to the side, looking out through a one-inch crack. 

The black car drove up not ten minutes later, stopping at the gas station. Three men got out: one filled the tank, one looked around with his arms crossed and one entered the shop. A few long minutes passed, and the third man reemerged with three sodas. All three of them got back in and drove away.

Sherlock sighed in relief, dropping the curtain.

“Not them?” John asked. 

“No, they were definitely from the Serpiente cartel. I could see their tattoos, and all three of them were armed. Whether they are looking for us is unclear." 

Sherlock walked over to the landline that was on the bedside table, quickly punching in the number he knew by heart. He let the line ring twice, then hung up and dialed it again. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he picked up.   

“We are in the middle of the desert, no cell service. Some footsoldiers from the cartel just passed us by.” 

Mycroft paused. “Where are you exactly?” 

“We stopped at a motel. I’m sure you’re triangulating our exact position at this moment, so why bother telling you?”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “I’ll investigate. Stay there for the time being.”

“Mycroft--”

Before he could say more, the line went dead. Sherlock cursed, slamming the phone back in its receiver and crossing his arms. 

“Well. I guess we are staying here for the night, then,” John said. 

“So it seems,” Sherlock said, still looking at the phone darkly. 

John looked like he was about to say something else, when there was a knock on the door. 

Sherlock and John looked at each other apprehensively. Holding his gun up, John strode quickly but quietly to look through the keyhole. His shoulders relaxed, and he stuck his gun in his trousers before he opened the door. 

“Shelby,” John said warmly. 

“Hi, Charles,” Shelby said. “My brother just brought me dinner, and I thought I’d bring these to you, since I’m sure you’ve been on the road for a long time. Oh, and this, too. It’s not pink champagne on ice or anything, but we never get newlyweds coming through here, and I thought--” 

“No, it’s lovely, thank you very much,” John said, accepting an amber bottle of liquor, two mismatched mugs, and a greasy takeout bag. “Who were those gents?” he asked casually. “They looked quite… rough.” 

Shelby’s smile faltered momentarily, but her smile quickly returned in full force. “Just some fellas passing through.” She started backing away. “I hope y’all enjoy your stay. Just holler if you need anything, I have to man the station all night,” she said over her shoulder, and John nodded as he closed the door. 

“She knows who they are,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Do you think she told them about us?”  

“No. Otherwise we’d be dead.” Sherlock said, glancing at the bottle in his hands. “Scotch?”

“Yeah. Looks like it’s been sitting on a shelf for about ten years,” John said, walking over to the small foldout table next to Sherlock. He opened the bottle and poured them each a healthy portion, then handed Sherlock a chipped mug (which was decorated with a cartoon mouse), and an amorphous tin foil-wrapped blob of what was allegedly supposed to pass as food. Sherlock glanced at them, raising an eyebrow at John. 

“Just eat it. You haven’t had anything in days,” John said. Sherlock sighed, taking them from him. John smiled, sitting down on the bed and taking out his own blob.

“What are these, anyway?” Sherlock asked, opening it suspiciously.

“Burgers. God, I’m starving,” John said. He unwrapped his own burger, scarfing it down in three bites and starting on another.

Sherlock made himself eat the disgusting almost-food, taking careful sips of scotch to wash it down. 

John threw his second wrapper in the garbage and poured himself another glass before walking over to the ancient telly and trying to turn it on, but it appeared to be broken. 

“Of course,” he sighed, walking over to the back windows and pulling back the curtain slightly. As John looked out, his compact figure emanated power in a way that it only did when he was on guard. It was subtle, probably only noticeable to Sherlock-- not because of his ability to deduce, but rather because he knew John so well. There were small changes to the way he stood or sat, the way one hand was held just a bit behind him in case he needed to draw his gun. Sherlock imagined that it must be how he would have been in the war zone, energy crackling around him, the danger feeding into his heightened awareness and making him even more intimidating. It was unbelievably sexy.

"I'm going to shower," Sherlock said, throwing the rest of his burger in the bin.

"Mmm," John hummed, not looking at him as Sherlock walked into the loo. Sherlock closed the door behind him, leaning back against it. It was getting harder and harder to pretend. Surely John would notice one of these times... if he had been just a bit more observant, he would know by now. Sighing, Sherlock went over to the shower and turned on the tap.

By the time Sherlock emerged, feeling somewhat human again, night was starting to fall, and the stars were starting to appear. A cool, dry breeze started to filter in through the open window.

"There's two chairs out on the back porch. Can we sit outside, you think?" John asked.

Pulling his shirt back on, Sherlock thought a moment. "Yes. Bring your gun, though.” 

John smiled, grabbing the bottle and walking out. After turning out the light, Sherlock took another drink, watching John through the open door. He was silhouetted against the increasingly dark night. 

After a moment, Sherlock walked out to join him, standing for a moment beside him in the half-light. The stars were starting to come out in full force, highlighting the desert in front of them in a strange silvery light. 

“The milky way will be visible here, I should imagine,” Sherlock mused. “Lack of light pollution.”

“It’s so _empty_ ,” John said, sitting in one of the rickety lawn chairs. “I had no idea that the States were made up of so much… nothing.”

“Almost unsettling, isn’t it?”

“It reminds me a bit of Afghanistan." John mused. "The constellations are different here. But then, you don’t care about that, do you? It’s all irrelevant." 

Sherlock moved back to sit in the other chair. “The solar system is, yes. Constellations, no.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you lose your way, you can find your bearings using constellations. Sailors used to navigate by the stars.”

John sat back, crossing his arms. “Oh? Show me.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips. “First, you find the north star in the middle of the sky, which is part of the Big Dipper. Then Hercules-- the hunter-- is just below towards the east. Leo the lion is to the west, with Virgo nearby to the south. Over there in the west are Castor and Pollux, the heads of the Gemini twins. Do you see that particularly bright star? That’s Vega, in the constellation Lyra, and the harp points towards the east-northeast. Scorpius the scorpion, is to the southeast, including that bright star there-- that’s Antares… there’s more, of course, but those are the most visible now.”

“Amazing,” John said, but he wasn’t looking at the stars. 

Sherlock was glad that it was dark, or John would have been able to see his ears turn pink.

“Alright,” John said, picking up the bottle and pouring them each another cup of scotch. “Let’s play a game.”

“Cluedo?” Sherlock tried not to grin.

“Yeah, right,” John said, rolling his eyes. “No, there was this game the Yanks used to play back when we were on tour. It’s called ‘never have I ever.’ Basically, we each hold up five fingers, and take turns saying something we have never done. If you have done something, you have to put down a finger and take a drink.” John raised his left hand, holding all five fingers up. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

“Just humour me,” John urged. “Please?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held up five fingers. “This is utterly ridiculous,” he muttered. 

John grinned, then scratched his chin in a contemplative gesture. “Okay. Never have I ever… been in rehab.” 

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. “That’s cheating. You know I have." 

John waggled his eyebrows. “That’s why this game is fun. Drink up.”

“Then the game is irrelevant, because we will both say things we know the other has done. We might as well just drop all five fingers and drink the rest of the scotch,” Sherlock protested. 

“Sore loser,” John said, grinning even wider.  

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, dropping a finger and taking a drink. “I’ve never been in the military.” 

“You have to say ‘never have I ever,’” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “Fine. _Never have I ever_ been in the military.”

John dropped a finger and took a drink. “Okay, hmmm.” He worried his tongue between his teeth as he looked at Sherlock. “How about… never have I ever lived with someone else as long as I have with you.”

Sherlock frowned. “Does family count?”

“Nope.” 

“Then, I have not either. Who drinks?” 

John smiled. “I do,” he said, taking a big gulp and pouring himself more. “Your turn.” 

Sherlock looked him up and down. “Never have I ever been shorter than six feet tall. As an adult, that is.” 

“Hey,” John said, poking him lightly as he put down a finger and took another drink. “That’s a cheap shot.” 

Sherlock simply shrugged.

“Fine,” John said. “Never have I ever had a brother.” 

“Again, this is a pointless exercise,” Sherlock said, taking a drink.  

John laughed lightly. “It’s just for sport. Your turn again. Make it good.”

Sherlock chewed his lip, his eyes flicking over John’s body. They were each sitting forward in their chairs, which were close enough that their legs could touch. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and the starlight was enough that he could now see John’s expressions. He was looking at Sherlock the way he had the first night they had been at Angelo’s-- relaxed, and with an element that Sherlock had been unable to identify at the time.  

“Never have I ever killed a man to save you,” Sherlock said slowly.

John’s smile drooped slightly, and he sat back. He put down another finger and sipped from his mug. “Okay, you’ve made your point. New rule, only say things you aren’t sure if the other person has done.” He cleared his throat. 

Sherlock was about to say that he knew almost everything about John, and had deduced the rest, but he clicked his jaw shut again. There were a few things that not even he knew, and had never been able to ask. This was his chance. 

John twiddled his cup between his hands, putting his bare feet up on Sherlock’s chair and carefully not looking at him. Several minutes passed, and Sherlock could tell he had made up his mind to ask a question, but he was just trying to get up the nerve. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to let his suspense show. 

John cleared his throat again as he looked up at Sherlock. “Never… never have I ever had sex with a bloke.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he put down one finger.

John took another sizable gulp of his drink and put down a fourth finger.

Sherlock raised his other eyebrow.

“You can say something you’ve done, as long as you put down your own finger too,” John said defensively. “Okay, your turn.”

Sherlock watched him carefully, and neither of them spoke for a long moment. He’d had suspicions, of course, but he definitely had not known for certain that John had been with a man. It hadn’t occurred to him that John could be using this game for his own purposes, too. Whether it was to find out something about Sherlock, or to let Sherlock know something about him… that was the real question.

Sherlock took another sip of his scotch, starting to feel a heady buzz.

“Well?” John prompted.

“Never have I ever been in love,” Sherlock said, looking up at John. John inhaled audibly, and his jaw worked as he swallowed.

At exactly the same time, they both put down a finger. 

John sat forward again, until they were so close that Sherlock could feel his breath. John opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Who?” he asked.

“Not part of the game,” Sherlock said softly. Neither of them moved for a long moment, and the only sound was the plaintive call of a dove in the distance.  

Sherlock let his gaze linger on John’s lips, which were close-- so close he could almost taste them. 

Suddenly, John cleared his throat and stood up, breaking the connection. “Well, that's it, then. I lose. I think I’m going to shower. I feel like there’s dust in places my mum’s never seen on me.”

John downed the last of his mug and stepped inside, leaving Sherlock to listen in the dark as the shower turned on.

It was no different than the thousand other times John had showered when he was in their flat, but for some reason (possibly the change of setting and circumstance) Sherlock was suddenly acutely aware that John was naked on the other side of that door. 

Standing, he went back inside, feeling the now-strong buzz and the beginnings of a dehydration headache coming on. Nevertheless, he tried to think.

Sherlock sat on the bed, clasping his head in his hands.

John had admitted that he had been with men before. At least one, anyway, and he had wanted Sherlock to know it.

Not only that, but he had admitted to having been in love before, though neither of them had named the person. 

He squinted his eyes shut, trying to add all the factors together once more. John seemed to have been telling him that he wanted Sherlock. But why, then, would he suddenly leave?

Sherlock ran over the entire conversation again in his head, settling on John’s face, so close to his own.

 _“Who?”_ John had asked.

The only indeterminate variable had been Sherlock. John had asked who he was in love with, and Sherlock had refused to answer.

He took another long drink of scotch.

 

 

* * *

John turned the shower to the coldest setting and stepped under the spray. That had been close. He could have leaned in just a miniscule amount and he would have been kissing Sherlock. 

It was just the scotch. That’s all it was. He’d lasted this long, keeping his feelings close to his chest, never expecting Sherlock to return any of it.

But now, just the tiniest iota of hope had bloomed in his chest. It had started when he had finally admitted to Sherlock that he had been with men, and Sherlock had looked at him with a glimpse of returned hope, his eyes lit by starlight. Then Sherlock had admitted he had been in love. 

He rested his head against the cool tile. Sherlock had given him an overture, more plainly than ever, and he had been a coward. 

It was time to stop running.

He shut off the shower, letting himself drip for a moment, then finally grabbed a towel, nodding to himself.

John took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom. He could see Sherlock freeze, his eyes raking down John’s whole body. He looked disheveled, his hair sticking up in every direction as it did when he had been running his hands through it in frustration, and his shirt was untucked. He looked a bit tipsy, too.

“I think that’s enough scotch,” John observed.

Sherlock shrugged exaggeratedly, and started trying to undo his shirt buttons, but failing. “Alright, possibly moderately inebriated,” Sherlock admitted. “Not that you’re sober, yourself.” 

John sighed, taking Sherlock’s mug and putting it on the side table and starting to unbutton the shirt for him. “You’re dehydrated and haven’t slept in three and a half days. You need water and rest." 

Having divested Sherlock of his shirt, he helped him take off his shoes and socks as well. Standing, he brushed Sherlock’s curls away from his forehead. “You got a little burned. You’re too pale for this climate.” 

His hand lingered on Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock looked up at him with the same naked desire John had seen on the porch. His eyes wandered downward once again to John’s lips, then back up to meet John’s gaze, his gaze hooded and pupils dark. 

No, it wasn’t just desire in those brilliant verdigris eyes. There was something else there, too. Something Sherlock had always kept carefully guarded, but was now exposed for John to see.

“When I asked you, before…” John started, then cleared his throat. He couldn’t back down, not now. 

Sherlock swallowed deeply. “It’s you, John,” he said softly. “It’s always been you. Can’t you see?” 

John exhaled sharply, not having realized he was holding his breath. He moved just a step closer, and Sherlock’s hands raised in slow motion to rest on John’s hips. 

“I know,” John whispered. “Me too.” He raised his other hand to Sherlock’s cheek and dipped downward. Sherlock’s hands tensed on his waist, the pads of his fingertips pressing into John’s skin.

For a moment they didn’t quite touch. They simply paused, inhaling each others’ breath. 

Sherlock looked up at him with a vulnerability that made John’s heart ache, and John smiled, closing the tiniest fraction of space between them.

At first it was just a light brush of lips, the novelty of it not lost on either of them. Almost immediately, he was hungry for more, sliding his hand back into Sherlock’s hair and pressing his tongue inward, tasting that mouth that he had fantasized about countless times. John felt acutely aware of every part of his body and of Sherlock’s, as though an electric current was now thrumming between them, connecting them as one. 

They snogged for what felt like eons, though it had to be only several minutes. John felt everything in a heightened awareness, and he wanted this to last, to take it slowly. As John bit Sherlock’s lower lip lightly, however, Sherlock made a small noise in between a moan and a sigh, which went straight to John’s cock. The semi he had managed to get almost under control in the shower came back in full force, and the years of self-denial making him feel like he needed to possess and be possessed, right now.

There was a growl low in his throat as he pushed Sherlock down onto the bed without breaking the kiss. Sherlock’s hands roamed down towards John’s arse, and John pushed the towel off to the floor. He unbuckled Sherlock’s trousers, brushing his fingertips over Sherlock’s pants. 

Sherlock gasped, his body arching under the contact as his eyes widened.

“Too much?” John panted.

“No, please, don’t… stop.” Sherlock gasped. 

“Good, because I don’t think I _could_ stop myself at this point,” John growled, pushing Sherlock’s trousers down to the floor. 

Now only Sherlock’s pants were between them, and John was finding it hard to breathe. Sherlock Holmes, the subject of one too many lonely wanks in his room at 221B, was finally laid out underneath him, kissing him with reckless abandon. He released Sherlock’s mouth, pressing kisses down his pale white throat to bite where it met his shoulder as he rocked his hips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock moaned again, more loudly than the first time.

“If you don’t quiet down, Shelby might start to suspect we are up to something,” John said wickedly.

“Need I remind you that she thinks we are on our honeymoon.”

John bit him harder in response, and Sherlock let out an even louder groan. 

“I want…” John whispered into his skin.

“What do you want?” Sherlock panted into his ear.

“God, I want everything. “ John mouthed along Sherlock’s clavicle as he pushed his hand down Sherlock’s pants. “What do you want?”

Again, Sherlock arched under the contact like a cat stretching. “I want… I want you,” he stuttered, his butterscotch voice sending a shiver down John’s spine.

“Yes, god, yes,” John hissed, unable to bear it a second longer. He pushed Sherlock’s pants down and settled between his open thighs. Their cocks slid against each other just a bit, and John leaned down to plunder Sherlock’s mouth again as he rocked his hips upward. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped into his mouth. 

“Yes, love,” John reached down to gather them into one hand and thrust up again and Sherlock lifted his pelvis into the contact. They rocked like this for a few minutes, rolling like waves in the tide, truly feeling each other for the first time. 

“John…” Sherlock panted. “Please. I need..." 

“Dammit,” John said breathlessly, letting his head fall against Sherlock’s chest. His cock was throbbing with need. “I want it too, but we don’t have anything.”

“I believe there’s some in the shop.”

John looked up, still breathing heavily. Sherlock’s hair was mussed, his lips reddened, and he had several lovebites on his neck that were blooming spectacularly.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. “Alright, I’ll go.”

Before he could change his mind, John stood and hastily pulled on his trousers and shirt. Opening the door, he paused, glancing back at the bed where the lanky form was still stretched out.  

“Condoms?” he asked tentatively. 

“We don’t need them,” Sherlock said hastily. “Mycroft insisted that we be tested after that heroin addict’s blood splattered over us, remember? Unless you have had liaisons I am unaware of since then…”

“No, of course not.” John shook his head. His eyes raked down the long pale body he had just been on top of, and he was having a hard time tearing his gaze away. 

“John,” Sherlock prompted, propping himself on his elbows.

“Hmm?” John made himself raise his eyes.

“Go. I’ll be waiting."

John nodded, making himself turn and leave the room. He marched double-time over to the gas station, where a droopy-eyed Shelby was still on guard, watching a small telly near the desk. She looked surprised to see him, but he simply nodded and walked right over to the toiletries area of the station.

Sure enough, there was a dusty-looking bottle of lube. John took it and strode over to the counter, raising his chin as he set it down. 

Shelby looked down at the bottle, then up at John, smiling slyly. John imagined he was turning bright red, but tried to suppress it; a married man wouldn’t be embarrassed about something like this.  

“I’ll charge it to your room,” Shelby said, winking.

“Thanks,” John said, grabbing it and striding quickly from the shop. The cool air washed over his heated face as he walked quickly back to the room, closing the door behind him. 

“That’s not very large,” Sherlock noted as John dropped the bottle on the bed stripped off his clothes again.

“Don’t worry, it gets bigger,” he said, grinning. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the innuendo, but his mouth slid into a matching grin. 

Crawling onto the bed, John straddled Sherlock again. “You’re unbelievably beautiful,” he said softly, running his thumb over those luscious lips. “I want to taste you, everywhere.”

“Do it,” Sherlock said, sucking on John’s thumb.

“Jesus,” John said, a shiver running through his whole body. “Turn over,” he ordered, sliding off of Sherlock. 

Sherlock obeyed, pressing his face into his forearm and canting his hips upward. 

“You have no idea how many times I have wanted to do this,” John said gruffly as he kissed all the way down Sherlock’s spine to his arse. He pulled apart Sherlock’s cheeks, licking up his perineum slowly. John could hear Sherlock moaning, his hips grinding into the bedcovers.

“Keep still,” John said, smoothing his hand down Sherlock’s back. He licked over Sherlock’s hole, massaging it with his tongue, and Sherlock made small desperate noises into the pillow as he trembled with the effort not to move.  

John pressed kisses to Sherlock’s cheeks again, then licked upward and into Sherlock’s opening, pressing his tongue inward. Sherlock bit the pillow, clenching the bedcovers in his fists, as John pushed inward over and over, fucking him with his tongue.  

“John,” he heard Sherlock moan brokenly. “Please. Please, John.” 

He ignored the pleas, continuing to press his tongue into Sherlock, massaging it around, until he finally felt as though he couldn’t wait a second longer, either. John sat back, picking up the bottle and slicking his fingers quickly, then his cock. Sherlock was panting, his whole body trembling and his cock heavy beneath him. Taking pity, John reached down to stroke him in one long pull as he worked two fingers into the loosened muscle of Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock cried out as John found his prostate, and he twirled his fingers around, then pressed in three.

“You’re so open already,” John said in wonder. “It… I mean, never mind.”

Sherlock turned his head. “I haven’t been with anyone in years,” he gasped. “I just stimulated myself.”

John shuddered, closing his eyes at the image of Sherlock fucking himself on his own fingers.  

“And I was thinking of you,” Sherlock added without prompting. “In case that was unclear.” 

“Jesus christ,” John said, suddenly having an undeniable urge to bury himself in Sherlock. He pulled out his fingers and flipped Sherlock over, propping his hips up with a pillow.  

Sherlock took hold of John’s cock, guiding the head into place, and John thrust forward slowly.

“Oh, god,” John panted, feeling himself be enveloped by the heat of Sherlock’s body. “You feel beautiful.” He pulled out, and thrust in again, more deeply this time. 

“Come on, John,” Sherlock gasped hoarsely, tilting his hips up farther and wrapping his legs around John. “I’m not going to break.”

John growled, a sound low in his throat, and he started thrusting faster, leaning down to kiss Sherlock hungrily again. The cheap wooden headboard was making quite a lot of racket against the wall, and Sherlock tried to stabilize it with one hand.

John didn’t care. His animalistic urge had taken over, and the man he had been in love with (consciously or not) for the past several years was accepting him into his body and making vaguely pornographic noises beneath him.

John reached down to stroke Sherlock in time with his thrusts. He felt himself find the right angle again, and a shudder ran through Sherlock’s body as he continued to thrust into that spot.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, abandoning the attempt to stabilize them and grasping John by the arse with both hands. His eyes were closed, but there was a single tear starting to trickle down the corner of one eye.

“I’ve got you,” John said. _I love you, god I love you._

John felt Sherlock starting to arch off the bed, his body clenching around John’s as he came over their stomachs. John leaned down to kiss him, continuing to thrust as he rode out the aftershocks, Sherlock clasping him to him as he saw stars and shouted his own release. 

He collapsed onto Sherlock’s body, and neither of them moved for a long moment. 

“You’re shaking,” Sherlock said, kissing his neck. 

“I’ll be alright,” John said, lifting his head slightly. He pulled himself out, watching Sherlock’s mouth widen into an “O,” and he couldn’t help but lean down and kiss him once more. Then he got up, walking over to the bathroom and wetting a washcloth to wipe them both off with.

“Sorry it didn’t last,” John said, grinning as discarded the cloth and slid back into the bed. “It’s been a while.”

“I didn’t last either. And there’s always next time,” Sherlock said, but almost instantly he clicked his mouth shut. His eyes widened, as if he was petrified he had made a mistake. “That is… I don’t presume… if you don’t want--” 

John stopped him by leaning down to press his lips to Sherlock’s again, the slide of their tongues now more lazy and languid. 

“You’re the daftest genius I’ve ever known. If I could have my way, I’d never let you leave this bed again,” he whispered as he pulled back. 

Sherlock was looking at him with indescribable vulnerability again, and the other emotion that John was starting to recognize as… love.

John pressed his lips together, running his hand through the mess of curls on his bedmate’s head.“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly.  

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t know how,” he said. “In all fairness, you lacked the initiative to say anything either.” 

John felt a tightening in his chest again, unable to believe that they had wasted so much time.

“I love you,” John said deliberately. 

Sherlock froze, his eyes focusing on John’s face again as he blinked several times. “John.” He seemed almost afraid, as if he couldn’t take the leap himself, at least not yet. 

“It’s fine,” John said, pulling him closer and kissing his eyelids in reassurance. “It’s all fine.” 

For a long time he simply held Sherlock against himself, listening to the hooting of the dove outside in the cool desert night, almost dazed by the happiness coursing through him. 

John let himself drift off, and his dreams of rippling desert sunlight were tempered with the feeling of dark curls twisted through his fingers.

 

 

* * *

As the birds were starting to twitter and pale light of dawn was beginning to filter into the room, John was wrenched from a lovely dream. It was one of his favorites, in which Sherlock was sucking him off.  

He moaned slightly, shifting, and cracked open his eyes-- and realized that this time, it wasn’t a dream. Sherlock was looking up at him through dark lashes as those ridiculously plump lips were moving up and down his cock. 

“Oh, _god_ ,” John moaned, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Trust the world’s only consulting detective to know somehow that morning blow jobs were one of his favorite things in the world. 

John couldn’t help but lift his hips slightly, rocking himself into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock growled with encouragement, taking John all the way down his throat and swallowing.  

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” John gasped, grasping the headboard with one hand.  

Sherlock hummed, which vibrated through John’s cock, and he reached down to tease John’s balls as he started to bob up and down.

John pushed his hips up again involuntarily, and Sherlock stayed in place, letting John fuck his mouth. His eyes were spitting sparks, and John was achingly hard. 

Soon Sherlock pressed his hips down, sucking once more up John’s length.

“Want to go again?” he said, licking the budding wetness off the head with apparent relish.

“Jesus, yes,” John said, and Sherlock grinned before he grabbed the lube and slicked John’s cock, then reached behind himself to work a couple of fingers in.

John propped himself up on his elbows. “Do you need me to--” 

“No, I am still open from a few hours ago,” Sherlock said, swinging a long leg over John to straddle him. Sherlock’s cock was already hard up against his belly, leaking slightly, as he took John’s cock in one hand and sank down onto it, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“Oh, god, that’s sweet,” John groaned, running his hands up Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock rocked back and forth a bit, gyrating his hips, until he was able to slide up and down John’s cock easily. 

“John,” Sherlock moaned, twisting his hips more as he came down. The dawn light filtered in through the window behind them, and pearls of sweat were starting to form on Sherlock’s skin. The light gave him an ethereal glow, and the long pale body riding John’s cock was more graceful than any he had ever seen. 

“Can I…” John gasped, grasping him by the hips.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his eyes still closed. John planted his feet and started thrusting upward, and Sherlock met him, making those little half-moans again.

It wasn’t long before John needed more. He pulled himself out, pushing Sherlock stomach down to the mattress and pressing in again. They both gasped, and John thrust forward harder. Sherlock rocked his hips backward, and John found an even deeper angle. 

They moved in concert, John curled around Sherlock’s back, their bodies slick with sweat despite the cool morning. John thrust harder, egged on by the noises Sherlock was making, and he reached down to stroke Sherlock’s cock as well. As he felt himself start to come, John bit Sherlock’s shoulder to keep himself from screaming, and they both fell over the edge and collapsed into a sweaty heap on the bed.

“That was fantastic,” John said, planting a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades as he pulled out. 

“Do you know... you do that out loud?” Sherlock mumbled, still breathing heavily. John rolled his eyes, taking a shirt from the floor and cleaning Sherlock up tenderly.

“Are you sore, love?” He kissed Sherlock’s hip.

“Not unmanageably,” Sherlock said. “It was worth it.” He flipped over and draped his arm over his eyes.

Chuckling, John sat back and was admiring the view when the phone rang. Sherlock shifted his arm slightly, and they both looked at each other for a long moment, but Sherlock made no other move.

John rolled his eyes again and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“John.”

“Mycroft.” John nodded in acknowledgement, though the person in question was thousands of miles away. Sherlock groaned, turning over and putting a pillow over his head. 

“Where is Sherlock?” the clipped voice asked.

John looked over at the immobile lanky body. “He’s indisposed at the moment,” John said. “Is there something I should tell him?” 

Mycroft paused. When he spoke again, it was with a tinge of amusement. “The Serpiente drug lords are in conclave in Tucson, and my inner source has told me that they are on the lookout for two British men. You should leave that no doubt flea-infested _establishment,_ and make sure you take back roads. I’ll text him the address. You should get service back long before you reach the city limits.”

“Thank you--” John started, but the phone clicked dead immediately. He gently replaced it in the cradle.

“We are ordered to leave, I gather.” Sherlock didn’t move or turn back to John, and for a long moment John worried that he regretted everything, and Mycroft’s call had brought him back to reality.  

“I’m going to shower,” John said. “Then we’d better get going.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said, his face still buried in the pillow. 

John swallowed, moving into the bathroom and turning on the shower. As he stepped under the stream, he was reminded forcibly of the night before, when he had been in this exact same spot, but everything had been different.

He heard the shower curtain shift, and another pair of feet stepped in. John turned around time to see Sherlock move towards John and grasp him by the hips. 

“I realize I haven’t said it yet,” Sherlock said. “Not out of oversight, but because I did not wish you to think I was only saying it because you had.”

John shook his head. “You don’t have to--” 

“Just listen,” Sherlock interrupted. “Do you remember when you fell asleep on my shoulder while we were watching one of those inane films?”

John frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?" 

“Do you remember?” Sherlock repeated. 

“Yes,” John said slowly. He had awoken several hours later on the couch, embarrassingly close to cuddling with Sherlock.  

“You talk in your sleep.” Sherlock’s mouth slid upward into a grin.  

John racked his brain, trying to remember what he might have said. 

“I love you, too, John Watson,” Sherlock said “With every breath, I love you. And…” he hesitated. “I want us to be together… like this.” 

John smiled, happiness blooming in his chest as he looked up at those extraordinary eyes. “I do, too.” 

Sherlock smiled, as if in relief, dipping down to capture John’s mouth with his own. When he leaned back, John opened his eyes to look up at him with reverence. The mist from the shower was starting to bead in his curly hair, and his lips curled up into a smile. “Now, shall we go catch some drug lords?” 

 “Oh god, yes.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The title is part of the lyrics from the song "Hotel California" by The Eagles.
> 
> 2\. The other song that had been playing on the radio was "December, 1963," which was playing during the wedding scene in "The Sign of Three."
> 
> 3\. I got the information on constellations from the University of Arizona Skywatcher's Guide.


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